I remember the summer I was four.

I remember the salty breeze blowing my hair into my eyes and in every other direction imaginable,

until my mother became tired of watching me struggle and pulled my white, blonde waves,

that were becoming even blonder with each minute under the summer sun, into two tight pigtails.

I remember my father taking me into the water and jumping me through the tide that I could have sworn was as deep as the ocean itself,

but if that had been true the ocean would have only gone up to just above my father’s knee.

I remember laying down in the sand and waiting for my dad to burry me

and turn my sunscreen covered legs into a mound of sand,

and then I would watch as I became a mermaid, my tail covered in the nicest shells he could find.

I remember walking along the beach with my mother, running ahead of her,

looking for shells to place in her bag when we got back to our chairs,

loving the feeling of freedom, but never daring to drift too far away from the safe arms of my mother.

I remember the pained smile i made looking into the bright sun

as my mom took a million pictures.

And I remember how I hadn’t then realized that I didn't quite fit with the rest of my family.

I remember the little jokes my sister used to tell me.

saying little things like, “Haven’t they told you you’re adopted yet?”

Or if she happened to be in a less forgiving mood things like,

“Nobody wanted you, that’s why they gave you up for adoption!”

But, believe it or not, I actually am not adopted.

I was born on December 29th, 1999, a Wednesday, at 1:18 pm to Jennifer and Scott Manning, and if you don’t believe me I can show you the pictures, all of the pictures; and all of the cards; and the ultrasound photos; and the blanket; and everything else that comes along with being a new baby.

But besides knowing all of that, I couldn’t help but tell myself that my sister was right, I wasn’t like them.

It was as if someone had sprinkled sand onto the December snow and assumed no one would notice.

But everyone does.

Snow versus sand.

The sun beamed down onto the family’s car, my family's car as we left the beach,

tired of all the sun, ready for fall to come again.

All except for the youngest, the second daughter, me.

I wasn't quite ready to leave summer yet.

We sat in the car, not saying a word.

My father driving, My mother reading a cooking magazine.

And my sister staring straight ahead with her headphones lodged in her ears, needlessly blocking out silence.

I sat stiff but in a way I was still relaxed,

trying not to focus on the headphones about to fall out of my ears,

switching between looking out of the window and skipping through the 742 songs on my iPod.

It seemed as if everything about me went with the warm days of summer:

light blonde hair like the sand it was leaving behind, begging to be lightened further by the sun;

grey blue eyes like the sea in a storm;

skin waiting to be tanned under the scorching sky.

None of that fit in with the winter.

But the rest of my family would have no problem blending into the chilling months coming up.

All with dark chocolate curls,

skin practically screaming to get out of the sun and turn back to the snowy white it was last Christmas.

I am the sand in the snow.

And as I get older I realize that in a way I’m glad I’m different from them.

I don’t want to have the brunette hair they all have; I like being blonde.

I like that I can tan, unlike my sister, who will just burn if she misses a spot with her sunscreen - that can not be fun.

But, I still love seeing through the same, blue eyes like my mom and sister, even if mine are a little grayer.

I like being the sand.

The sand in the snow.